Escape of the Dantonists
by 5aira
Summary: Maximilien Robespierre realizes just before the execution that he loves Camille more than life itself. With the aid of an English necromancer he devises an escape plan, which he leaves behind along with a brief personal insight into his feelings Chapter 2 - Camille puts plume to papier to give us his own inimitable slant on the escape and later events...
1. Escape

**A Flight of Fancy**_or _**Maximilien Saves the Day**_ [it didn't happen but it should have done]_

The two fragments reproduced here were discovered by Eleonore Duplay in the aftermath of the much disputed escape of the leading Dantonists and the unexplained disappearance of Citoyen Robespierre. Much of it defies enlightened belief but the wilder elements may be explained the revelation of Citoyen St. Just that his friend had lately been in contact with a _Mr Childermass_, believed to be an employee of the well-known English necromancer, _Mr Norell_* .

We print the fragments in their entirety, with a minimum of editorial comment. They comprise a highly conflicted 'interior dialogue' followed by a very brief and highly surreal '5 Point Plan'.

They are dated Germinal 15 An II

Interior dialogue:

_You cannot live without him! _

_He got himself into this mess! – You won't be able to live without him! – _

_I did my very best to get him out of it as usual! – You still won't be able to live without him – _

_I begged him to stop publishing! -But you always knew he wouldn't! _

_He never did know when to stop! – That's what you love about him!_

_He doesn't love me! - It's always been that fat demagogue!_

_Perhaps if you save him he might learnt to…pull yourself together Max – make a plan!_

My 5 Point Plan

1 –INTRODUCE AND PASS LAW OF GERMINAL 16 – all conventionels to take mandatory afternoon nap to counteract inefficiency

2 – When all asleep make way to Conciergerie; exchange tired old tumbril nag for Pegasus, fiery feathered steed of the gods–[How the fuck – ed.]

3- Find gaoler, tell him, DO NOT CUT HIS HAIR! Do you hear me? DO NOT TOUCH ONE SINGLE STRAND OF HIS TUMBLING EBONY CURLS OR YOU WILL ANSWER TO ME! - Oh yes and MAKE SURE YOU SHAVE THAT GREAT OAF DANTON AS CLOSE AS POSSIBLE! – [note to self - might need to take liver powder here in case of becoming overwrought]

4 – Go home, change into stylish Graeco-Roman costume – he can't help but love that – wait very quietly by the window – for god's sake don't let E see me

5- As tumbril passes, leap from window; skewer driver to the ground with spear; urge Pegasus up, up and away; second left at the Temple of Reason; straight on to _Shangri-La_*! Live forever in eternal vertu basking in the golden glowing warmth of Camille's gratitude![seems unlikely-ed.]

The fragment ends here – some later blottings are open to interpretation but may read…'Antoine can do what he likes with that bitch Lucile'. However they are heavily excised and cannot fairly be said to represent the opinion of Citoyen Robespierre.

The excessive use of capital letters, semi colons, ellipses and exclamation marks, so unlike Citoyen Robespierre's usual spare style, raises the question of authenticity but it has been suggested that he may have been suffering from what we now call 'work related stress' for some months and had started to build a dissociative personality for himself.

Louise and Francois Robert are mounting an expedition to the Tibetan Plateau in the hope that some evidence may survive in a local Lamasery. It would be interesting to discover how the presence of Maitre G-J Danton, even close shorn, impacted on the degree of vertu attained.

_* Susanna Clarke 'Jonathan Strange and Mr Norell'_

_*James Hilton 'Lost Horizon'_

Paste your document here...


	2. Camille's Story

**Editor's Note**

_Louise and Francois Robert have reached the High Lamasery and have sent us a number of documents handed to them by the Panchen Lama. Both of them were able to confirm the looping, idiosyncratic handwriting of M. Camille Desmoulins although they were surprised to find him writing in English and remarked upon the change of style through the course of the work. Our publishing house intends to carry out further checks on authenticity, but we are allowing the earliest item to stand alone. It opens in M. Desmoulins' familiar style but readers will note that it becomes freer and the content much more personal as the work unfolds [you can say that again!-ed.] It appears to have been written shortly after the celebrated escape of the Dantonists._

**Les Deux Cordeliers**

**Journal rédigé**

**Par Camille Desmoulins**

**Vivre Libre: Il ne faut pas mourir!**

Friends and Brothers! Does not the great orator Cicero, in his meditations on the life of Pegasus, tell us….NO! My renowned honesty, so cherished by my subscribers, compels me to admit that even the great Cicero never wrote about such things. It fall, therefore, to me, Old Cordelier and Doyen of the Jacobins to tell you about our miraculous escape; I will abandon my high rhetorical style and espouse the more earthy format of the Anglophone press since my dear friend Georges-Jacques has been teaching me English.

A brief digression on these English lessons: the air in this place seems to facilitate learning most wonderfully; and my private lessons with G-J have been so delightful [unlike my experiences at Cateau Cambresis] that I am now almost as fluent as he is and we often spend whole hours practising idiomatic usage _[well that's a new name for it – ed.]_

Many of you will already know that I had been in very poor health since before my incarceration; indeed I occasionally sensed waves of feminine concern emanating from across La Manche. Sanitary conditions in the Luxembourg were absolutely primitive, especially for a man accustomed to at least two state of the art bidets! Then again the sight of those two witches _[we reluctantly believe this to be a reference to his devoted wife and mother-in-law-ed.] _sitting outside my prison window all day, whilst I was unable to see my beloved G-J, fairly turned my stomach.

So, by the time we were all bundled into the fatale charrette, I was more dead than alive, although Hérault has since, with a degree of surprise, told me that I put up a good fight. I suppose I should have realised something was afoot when they didn't cut my hair, but really the only clear memory I have is of G-J putting my locket into my hands.

Fabré tells me there was a fierce altercation when the driver was ejected, but the only event that made any impact on me was the sickening lurch as Pegasus took flight with the tumbril. Really, the very last thing a person with stomach trouble needs!

As soon as our flight stabilised the driver, whom I took to be Bellerophon on account of his rather fetching costume and apparent mastery of Pegasus, turned round and called my name. Well! No one, however poorly, could mistake the thin reedy voice of Maximilien Robespierre for the hero Bellerophon!

'Camille, dear child, come up and take a turn with the reins; let me untie your hands for you and you can help me drive to the safety of Shangri La'

I can tell you he was never so keen to untie my hands at school! Quite the reverse in fact_ [more of this in later documents – ed.]_. G-J tells me he looked like he was sucking on a lemon when he saw my locket but just at that moment Pegasus seemed to stumble and Max fairly leapt back to take the reins. Four pairs of eyes turned upon me! Herault lifted one eyebrow, a gesture that really does convey more than any words, and they all turned their backs towards me. I unfastened their hands as quickly as possible, starting of course with G-J.

Lucky I did, because no sooner had Pegasus regained a steady course than Max, completely ignoring me, hurled himself upon G-J, looking for all the world like a pimple on St Pauls _[idiomatic usage lessons paying dividends here- ed] _and tried to push him out of the tumbril. Thank God G-J is so well built or_I_ we would have lost him to the elements. It was Philippeaux who actually dragged Max off him and threw him bodily into the far corner of the tumbril. Herault went over and put an arm around his shoulder [noblesse oblige I suppose]. Max seemed to be muttering disjointed phrases

'That fat oaf'

'We don't need him'

'What's he done with the crown jewels?'

And most puzzling of all 'aren't two wives enough for him?'

Naturally I was more concerned with G-J but he seemed none the worse for his narrow escape. 'Ineffective little eunuch! He'll not get rid of me that easily! Camille, let me fasten your locket again' I lifted my hair and turned around. I felt G-J's powerful hands at the nape of my neck and to my utter delight and amazement he planted a gentle kiss behind my left ear! In full view of all the others mind you! Oddly enough none of them showed the slightest surprise _[well there's a thing! – ed.]_

Pegasus seemed well able to maintain a steady course without the need of a driver, which raises a query about his timely stumble earlier on; so we all settled down to see what new worlds awaited us.


	3. Chapter 3 Max's Diary

_Our publishing house continues to adhere to its established policy of undertaking the most rigorous authentication of the documents recovered by the Roberts. This is the first of a series of diary entries maintained by Citoyen Robespierre_

Germinalle Germinnal Germinal 21 19 Oh whose stupid idea was it to change the dates!

**Entry 1**

What a fool I was to leave the two of them in the same tumbril!

Whatever was I thinking of?

He'd_chosen_ to _die _rather than abandon that dissolute monster. I had begged him and begged him – I was on my KNEES in the cell that last evening.

I know the guards were looking at me through the bars, I could hear them talking about me and sniggering. Oh why ever didn't I just order the two of them to be separated?

And the others, they're all on his side. You would have thought at least one of them would have been glad to help me push the great lummox out of the tumbril. I mean he'd undoubtedly been having 'relations' with all their wives _(mind you – this bunch encourage that sort of thing - it will all be very different when we achieve true vertu here). _But oh no! never mind the fact that they would all have been dead if it hadn't been for me, not to mention associating with necromancers on their behalf, it was only the ci-devant Herault who showed any sort of sympathy at all. In fact if it hadn't been for him I truly believe they would have pushed me out instead.

Things are even worse here. I mean everyone's so happy! – There's no effective government, not a SINGLE COMMITTEE, and no one seems to have the slightest interest in improving this state of affairs.

The others all seem to love it though – that venal wretch d'Eglantine has actually got some colour in his cheeks; I had fully expected him to die before meeting the national razor! He looks so much better these days it actually makes me feel as if there really might be something about the air in this place, which is exactly what Mr Childermass told me when I was negotiating with him about Pegasus and the general escape_ [all the plans were my own of course but I needed help on the magical side]_

Camille and the Fat Oaf spend all their time together and it's absolutely sickening. It's as if I just don't exist.

They've tied the ends of a long piece of rose coloured canvas between two trees and they _both _lay themselves out _together _in it for hours on end. It's my belief they even spend the night there sometimes _[I haven't been to check yet] _like the most depraved sort of ci-devants. Camille calls it a 'love hammock' and the Fat Oaf says they're quite common in the British Navy [he's always showing off his Anglophile credentials]. I say that's no reason for virtuous revolutionaries to follow the practice; although when I see Camille lying there I do remember how much he used to love that blanket fort I made for him when we were at school, the one with the little dungeon .

I visited the stables the day before yesterday, to give Pegasus an apple and found Hérault there _[I didn't see him go in]. _It seems he was very fond of his horses before the revolution, and he showed me how to rub Pegasus down with a handful of straw – I am always a bit nervous around Pegasus, I don't think he likes me much, but he seemed to enjoy the apple, and Herault told me that the strange noises he made when I rubbed the straw over him are called 'snickering' and signify enjoyment. I suppose such a thing could be pleasurable – if the straw was rough enough.

He told me about the dogs they used to keep in his stables: black and white spotted dogs; apparently they would run along beside the carriages. Hérault said he missed the dogs and quite unaccountably I found myself telling him how much I missed poor Brount and what a faithful friend he'd always been. I tried to describe the look he gave me while I was preparing for my leap from the window, as if he knew I was going away and leaving him. I don't usually tell people things like that, and I might have cried a bit. Luckily Hérault is far too well bred to draw attention to a momentary lapse and he went off to help with some of the little pack ponies they keep here.

I had to spend the first few days here stuck in that ridiculous Bellerophon costume – another misjudgement on my part of course. I suppose I would have stood more of a chance if I'd padded myself out with cushions and worn my legal garb.

I think Hérault must have felt sorry for me because after a few days ago he turned up with some pantaloons and a waistcoat; he seems to have got very chummy with the head monk here and says they have had European visitors before. I have to say I did start to feel a bit more like myself then. Herault is very kind, and in fact he suggested I call him Marie-Jean, but that seems a bit informal somehow and I do feel we should try to keep up the proprieties otherwise where will it all end?

Camille and the Fat Oaf started wearing native dress almost as soon as we arrived, the Fat Oaf prancing about in bright orange robes looking EXACTLY like the great overgrown Seville orange I used to have nightmares about back when Eleonore was forever trying to feed them to me.

Camille, needless to say, looks utterly captivating, mostly barefoot, long delicately veined feet, in a loose, yellow silk tunic _(he calls it 'topaz')_ with orange _(he calls that 'amber')_ silk culottes which taper most charmingly just above his ankles. As always he clearly has no idea of the effect he has on those around him. One of the young monks has shown him how to pin his hair on the very top of his head fastened with a string of rather pretty green beads they call 'jade' which drop to just below his ear lobes and contrast so strikingly with his wicked black eyes. He's been going along to their dance academy for a couple of days now and I hear he's very talented. Even the locals have fallen under his spell!

And I can hardly bear to record this but I feel sure he lets the Fat Oaf do his hair for him in the mornings. I just happened to be passing outside his door yesterday and I could hear Camille's voice so clearly, almost no trace of his adorable stammer now

'Just a little bit higher up Georges, just a bit'

Oh what was the point of it all? He was never going to love me! Father left me, Mother left me, and nobody ever loved me!


	4. Chapter 4 Danton's Big Problem

Our publishing house has a separate team working on these documents from Citizens Danton and Camille. Citizen Camille's writing has been the easiest to authenticate, there are so many pre-existing examples of his handwriting and elements of his style continue to be recognizable.

Citizen Danton has provided the most difficult challenge so far. He left almost no written work to use in comparisons and seems to have undergone the most radical personality change of all the escapees. Interestingly, we had to remove two of our most senior partners from the authentication exercise after they were observed weeping and hugging each other after every paragraph and we feared for their well-being. In a profitable development though they provided the answer we were searching for. They went on holiday together to Arcis sur Aube, where, whilst organising their civil ceremony, they unearthed several land registry documents in Danton's own hand, confirming without doubt the authenticity of the document printed below.

We took a policy decision to auto correct the spelling errors for our readers' ease of understanding although we have printed the note to Camille as is.

Danton – My Big Problem

Before I begin: Let me say that I have heard it bruited abroad by the feeble of intellect that I can't write! How in the name of God do these cretins think I acquired my education! Allow me to make it clear NOW that I can write in both French and English exactly as well as I can extemporise in Latin and make love in Italian.

Spelling now, that can sometimes be a problem, Camille usually proof reads my work, when he can spare the time from his Sanskrit.

Not this time though, I don't want him to see this. He's out at his dance class, practising for an upcoming performance and I am writing this to try and sort out a Big Problem he's landed me with. There's no one I can talk to about it and Camille is only just regaining his strength and is still quite fragile so I don't want to upset him if it can be avoided.

I tried what Camille calls 'displacement activity' before I decided to write. We've got two little dogs, only small and very fluffy. Camille found them in the stables and Hérault said they were the last two of a big litter. He was so taken with them I agreed that we could keep them. They're tough little things, the bitch (we call her Judith) thinks nothing of squaring up to Max's bloody great mastiff (Camille has suggested we call him Holofernes – wicked wicked sense of humour but always looking for trouble)

Anyway they are the filthiest little buggers you can imagine, we had plenty of working dogs back in Arcis but I don't recall them rushing off to roll themselves in every scrap of ordure they could find, which these two do whenever they can. Then of course having exhausted themselves they leap up to go to sleep on your lap – and Camille says it's cruel to stop them. As a result he is often covered in yak shit; he appears to have no idea why this should be; he doesn't like it, but apparently never links my relative lack of yak shit to the fact that I refuse to let them sleep on my lap in that condition.

So I decided to give them a bath – there's a hot spring just behind our house (we don't bother with separate establishments any more) - I filled a big tub with water and chucked the pair of them in. One of the local women came along and laughed uproariously at the struggle I was having to stop them getting out; she went away and came back with some of the soap she uses for washing clothes and between the two of us we gave them a thorough scrub.

Camille would be frantic with worry if he knew I'd left them to dry off by running around the yard; pneumonia would be the very least of his fears; but he's not here is he? And they are both already bone dry and unusually sweet smelling; he will undoubtedly appreciate that. There's a sort of cologne the monks make here, and he absolutely adores it when I splash a little on after shaving. I use it to please him but fuck me it stings on the scars!

None of this deals with The Problem though; I really don't know what to do. I could kill Camille but the ridiculously impulsive side to his personality bewitches me – always did really.

When he reached out to untie my hands first in the tumbril I felt such a cathartic sense of joy and relief wash over me I can't even try to describe it. I was honestly just about to thank Max for what was a genuinely spectacular escape plan when the demented little wretch hurled himself upon me. He really does hate me, and he hasn't softened since we've been here.

We're always finding him lurking about outside our house and once he virtually tumbled into the hammock; fell out of the tree he'd been hiding in. It thoroughly upset Camille; he said it reminded him of those eyes in the paintings, back when we were in the Min of J. He always felt they were spying on him too. Why Robespierre should be so concerned with what we get up to I don't know.

Actually if I'm honest I suppose I do, he thinks he should have first dibs on Camille because he knew him before me, but that decision is for Camille to make and I'm fairly sure it's always been me.*

Back to The Problem though. I've currently got it locked in Camille's walk-in wardrobe, in a sort of box. Now that I think about it the wardrobe wasn't a wise choice but I'm afraid for the dogs you see. The Problem demands more thought; I'll take the dogs for a game with their sticks while I ponder.

*_It was at this point we relieved both our senior partners of day to day duties – ed._

Camille's Fragment

Really G-J is turning into as bad a fusspot as old Claude. He was out with Judith and Epaminondas when I returned from my dancing (everyone full of praise for my performance there I have to say) but he had left me a note

PROBLEM SAIFLY LOCKED IN YOUR WARDROBE –

STILL WORIED ABOUT DOGS

BUT IF YOU ARE DETTERMINED X

In my wardrobe!

My wardrobe!

He locked her in my wardrobe!

I didn't even stop to correct his spellings. We can go over those in the hammock after English lessons. I had visions of all my clothes torn to shreds – We've completely gone over to coloured silk since we've been here; the rustling noise and the sensation of it against one's skin is beyond arousing description. Georges has always been a little careless of his appearance but the tangerine robes somehow manage to combine casual with imposing – typical Georges!

I digress – not as much as in the old days but still. My clothes were untouched and what G-J refers to as The Problem was still fast asleep in her box. I reached down and picked her up.

The softest silver spotted kitten with the longest bushiest tail ever. She opened her eyes, licked my face and started to purr.

We're just waiting now for Georges and the dogs to come back. She's had some yak's milk and has curled up on my lap, she only just fits – I wish I could put on some weight.

I'm sure Georges will let her stay, she's an orphan after all, her mummy died and I know what that's like. Hérault says her zoological name is Panthera Uncia and she's a snow leopard, the most exquisite creature I ever saw – I'm going to call her Lucile.


	5. Camille's Performance by Max

With this new editing venture we welcome our two senior partners back to work. Solange and Aurélie (ci-devants Sue and Angie) have combined sections of writing from Citizens Camille, Robespierre and de Séchelles, and thus brought together a range of views written on the subject of Citizen Camille's début dance performance.

Our long established publishing house has recently succumbed to a takeover from N.I. and given the nature of the editorial comments in this venture we felt ourselves under an obligation to refer the piece to the new owner: we print his response here in full:

_«This whole fucking thing is so fucking far-fetched nothing makes any fucking difference: print the crazy fucking sheilas barmy fucking comments; you're all for the fucking guillotine next year anyways » _

**Performance**

_Camille's Fragment – written the night before the performance_

_My body doesn't stammer!_

_How can that be? _

_I don't suffer from nerves either! _

_Even here, with Georges, safe in this magical place, the paralysing dread of taking the tribune at the Jacobins never quite leaves me. The clamouring crush of my own words congealing in my throat; the useless and pathetic efforts to bring them to order and the feeble tricks employed to circumvent the problem. _

_But my body doesn't stammer_

_And I don't suffer from nerves._

_I can dance; I can learn steps and I can improvise (like G-J extemporising but for dance). Everyone's coming to see me tomorrow night; my costume is ready; Ki-Ran is going to bead my hair and Lakshmi has created a completely new henna pattern just for me. _

_I am saving a very small secret surprise for the finale. I am so excited I doubt I shall be able to sleep. {old G-J's in for a good night then-ed.}_

Citizen Robespierre's 53rd entry written on the morning of the performance

Well no one could expect me not to stop and listen could they? Not when I could actually hear the fat oaf, bellowing at le pauvre petit in that belligerent manner.

_« For the last time Camille – I don't mind bringing the dogs, they're properly trained and they'll do as I tell them, but I do draw the line at Lucile! You know very well that as soon as she sees you she'll leap up at you. The trouble is there's nothing of you, a breath of wind would blow you away, and with the excitement of the performance there'll be no hope of controlling her; she's knocked you over twice already »_

I just happened to have my notebook with me at the time – I wasn't eavesdropping; Marie-Jean has spoken to me about that and we agreed I would stop it; still I thought I'd better write it all down verbatim in case it was needed in evidence; I mean at the very least it is indicative of neglect; although I've no idea where they hold criminal proceedings in this benighted place.

I mean anybody would have been incensed wouldn't they? It seems the whole aim of that dissolute monster's policy is to place le pauvre petit in deadly danger. I was on the verge of intervention when I heard Camille;

_« Oh Georges-Jacques! T-t-t-tu es…. »_

_« En Anglais Millie! En anglais, tu ne bégayes jamais »_

I hate it when he calls him by that stupid name; of course they only speak English because they think I won't understand; it has nothing to do with Camille's stammer at all; but that's where they're wrong! Oh yes! Because Marie-Jean has been giving me English lessons!

_« You really are as silly as a ….. sausage »_

Well it's perfectly true; I couldn't really understand that, although it certainly sounded indelicate. It must come in those idiomatic usage lessons and we haven't got around to those yet.

_{Holy Jesus and all his little children Solange – please tell me they never get around to it-ed}_

After that it all went a bit quiet and muffled;

I lurked about for a bit, just in case Camille needed me, and saw the fat oaf heading off towards the stables – I've seen him in there twice recently. There are a couple of women there, they do leather work or something, I'm sure he's up to his old tricks again and I will have to mop up Camille's broken heart, just like when we were back in school. I thought I'd pop in and maybe forewarn him but then he came rushing out

« Sorry Max, can't stop, dress rehearsal you know! See you there tonight sweetie »

Citizen Robespierre's 54th entry – written shortly after the performance

It all started so well.

The temple was full of people; he's enchanted them all as I think I've said before.

Needless to say the great buffoon made a grand entrance, like some tinpot eastern potentate; surrounded by a gaggle of the local children who seem, for some unaccountable reason to have adopted him

_{because he's fun and he makes them laugh and he loves them, you unfeeling monster - ed} _

They all sat down on some cushions with the two dogs – I still prefer to use a chair. The stage was a mass of flickering candle light and the drums began an insistent sort of thrumming.

I don't mind telling you I felt physically sick with apprehension; Camille was a nightmare at the tribune; he could just about manage if the fat buffoon was actually standing next to him in some perverted sort of solidarity, but otherwise – useless!

His entrance though was breath-taking!

So exotic I doubt if I can find words to describe it; I'd already asked him about his costume so I know it was turquoise and amethyst watered silk in the style they call shalwar-kameez, but nothing had prepared me for the effect.

He had left one shoulder and arm completely bare but decorated with a sort of lacework, painted on in that brown stuff they call henna. Oh it reminded me so very much of the lace mother used to make; I'm not ashamed to say I started to cry.

Chased silver discs on black leather wound several times around both his ankles; the pantaloons (he calls them shalwar) slit quite alarmingly along the outside seam; a string of tiny jade stones around his forehead and the nails on those exquisite hands and feet painted with gold paint.

But the most beautiful thing of all – he'd loosened his hair which has been tied up for so long and it almost reached his waist; someone had woven tiny strings of shimmering glass beads into it and I have never seen anything so wonderful in my life.

And then he started to dance!

It was as if he were both possessed and abandoned; he span and twirled and twisted; his hands weaved glimmering circles in the air; sometimes he moved so fast I couldn't make out what he was doing and at other times he was so slow and deliberate and sinuous it made me feel quite uncomfortable. No one could take their eyes off him!

There truly was clapping and stamping and shouting from the entire room when he finished and I could see such an exultant gleam in his eye; but of course he was only searching for the fat oaf – he moved towards the front of the stage and for the first time I saw that familiar hesitancy appear. I tore my eyes away from the costume, now damp with perspiration and clinging to every contour…to scour the audience.

That ungrateful monster had disappeared! Of course no one had noticed because no one had eyes for anyone but Camille; something so precious should never be entrusted to such coarseness and venality; I always think of the doves and the storm and the poor little broken bodies when I see that terrible stricken look on his face.

_{well Solange – he's a fine one to talk about broken bodies don't you think? – Solange?.…. what on earth are you crying for now?-ed} _

I began to push my way towards him through the throng; this was always bound to happen; at last he would need me and I could comfort him; he sank to the floor and I could just hear him whimper;

« Georges, tout cela, c'est pour toi »

This was my moment; I would put my arm round his shoulders and gently wipe away the tears just like when we were at school and another pervert had broken his poor heart yet again and finally he would understand that I …..

_Citizen Robespierre never completed this entry; there are traces of tears and what may be the imprint of footmarks on the paper {be honest Aurélie – he must have screwed it up and jumped up and down on it-ed}_

_We are lucky to have recourse to a section of Marie-Jean Hérault de Séchelles' memoir to allow us to understand how the evening ended._

Marie-Jean de Séchelles – A Memoir

One simply has to hand it to Danton; crass and vulgar he may be but no one creates an impression like him. There was Camille, very fetching in his distress I have to admit and there was Maxim bustling his way through the crowd towards him when the temple door swung open and we all heard a massive roar. Even Camille looked up and we all followed his glance.

The crowd parted as Maitre Danton strode towards the stage, not entirely in control of his pace, which to my observation is generally measured and stately. He was being pulled towards a newly smiling Camille by that fabulous snow leopard they keep.

He had acquired, from somewhere, the softest red leather harness and with Lucile restrained by that, the two of them were just about a match for each other. More thunderous applause broke out as he handed the leash to Camille with the broadest smile of self-delight stretched across that scarred mouth.

_{Solange – tissues, NOW please- ed}_

I am sure there was more to relate after that but my duty has been made clear to me since before the escape.

The poor little wretch Maxim is broken; and it is for me to work out his salvation, God help me.


End file.
